Most spiders and I seem to have an understanding: you stay outside, you stay alive. A rare few don't speak my lingo. These find themselves on the losing end of the paper towel, book or shoe. The rule hasn't changed since we've
moved to the country. The spiders are just bigger here. Here's a sample of one of our summertime temporary guests. He's curled up after the deadly strike-by-shit-kicker, but you get the idea.
Sure, spiders serve a purpose. They catch any number of other insects or bugs that mysteriously find their way into the house despite the window and door screens. And I do make exceptions for the Daddy Long Legs the family hasn't yet spotted, particularly since learning that the story about their highly poisonous venom is a myth.
We also have tarantulas here. I don't know if they'll bother with squeezing into the house come fall mating/migration season. And I'm not sure I could bring myself to stick with my death-sentence standard. We've found the tarantulas fairly mellow. Maybe arming myself with a large cup for capturing and moving them will work.